Taken
by Joodiff
Summary: Set between S8 and S9. When Boyd unexpectedly disappears, not even Grace has any idea of what he might be facing. Rated T for strong language. Angst, suffering, H/C and all sorts. Complete. Enjoy!
1. Prologue

**Disclaimer: **I own nothing.

**Dedication:  
><strong>Originally written for anyone who enjoys such things,  
>and finally finished for my new friends.<p>

* * *

><p><strong>Taken<strong>

_By Joodiff_

* * *

><p><strong>PROLOGUE<strong>

It's a fluke. It's a million-to-one chance. It's one of those accidental, coincidental things that are so wildly improbable that no-one actually believes in them. It's Saturday night, and Eve Lockhart is in the back of a black cab, heading home after a few quiet drinks with an old friend. It's a clear, cold late autumn night, and as the cab comes to a smooth halt at a red light, it's maybe the chill of the night that's ultimately responsible for what she sees. Certainly, Eve isn't really concentrating as she gazes out of the window, but it's the familiarity of the silhouette, of the long dark coat with the collar turned up against the biting cold that subconsciously catches her attention. It disturbs her reverie, makes her focus properly. He's tall, the man in the dark coat. Tall, broad-shouldered and greying. His stance is assertive, easily recognisable. Eve doesn't need to see his face. She knows immediately that she is looking at Peter Boyd. She sees him every single working day.

The elegant woman with him is also wearing a winter coat, but its bulk doesn't disguise how small and slight she is in comparison to him. And there's no mistaking her identity, either. Doctor Grace Foley, Home Office psychologist and criminal profiler currently attached to the Metropolitan Police's Cold Case Unit. Eve sees them. They do not see her, sitting in the back of the anonymous stationary cab. She suspects that they have probably just left the restaurant on the corner, a moderately expensive Italian place renowned for the superior quality of its wine cellar. But it doesn't matter where they have been. What matters is where they are now. On the pavement just nine or ten feet away from her, utterly oblivious to her presence.

Eve wants to look away. She knows she should look away. She wants the lights to change and the driver to pull off into the night. She can't look away. She sees Grace take Boyd's arm, sees her look up at him and say something, a smile quite clear on her face. She sees Boyd laugh in response. It's a moment. A quiet, affectionate and intensely private moment, taking place right in front of her. Eve sees quite clearly the way they are so easy together, so familiar.

They are out of context. These are her colleagues, people who belong to her working life. And here they are alone on a Saturday night, just the two of them; the way they are looking at each other tells Eve everything about them, and the true nature of their relationship. The way she holds his arm is possessive. The way he looks at her is territorial. The two people standing together on the pavement are lovers. Of course they are.

And as the cab finally starts to move again, Eve sees the quick, gentle embrace and the light kiss that confirms it. And what really surprises her is not the unforeseen revelation itself, but the incredible tenderness she witnesses between them.

She knows she has been inadvertently gifted a secret. A precious secret that she must hold in trust; and hold it Eve will, quietly and determinedly, for however long is necessary.

-oOo-

_Continued…_


	2. Taken  1

**Taken**

"Boyd," the unmistakable voice on the answerphone says. "Leave a message."

And this time, perhaps because she's finally reached the limits of her patience, Grace does exactly that. She says, "If you can't be bothered to behave like an adult, Boyd, I can't be bothered to waste my time coming over. I'll see you tomorrow."

It's not exactly the most mature response, and she's well aware of it, but after a day of bickering and jibing that has resulted in a completely pointless and more than usually antagonistic argument, Grace isn't inclined to be overly-tolerant. It's also true that Boyd's stubborn refusal to answer either his home phone or his mobile has very definitely got under her skin. And she's damned certain she's not going to drive halfway across London in the dark while he's still behaving like a spoilt child.

To be fair, she's aware that he's under more pressure than normal, that he's fighting against budget cuts and plans to streamline the Cold Case Unit, but she's not in the mood to make excuses for him. Sometimes loving the man can be incredibly hard work. His complete refusal to talk to her is a little out of character, however. Usually, Boyd is utterly predictable in his moods – he gets angry and frustrated, he loses his temper, he behaves appallingly and then he calms down and eventually tries to make amends, one way or another. But Grace has never known him simply refuse to communicate, however angry he may be.

But tonight she's too tired to pander to him, and although she's a little unsettled, it's nice to have a few hours of uninterrupted peace and quiet. Even in a good mood, he is not a restful soul to be with. He's too boisterous, too full of nervous energy. It's endearing – and intensely wearing. No, Grace decides, she will enjoy her own company, have an early night, and confront him in the morning. If she knows anything at all about his character, by the morning he will have shrugged off the black mood; if she's lucky, he will also be feeling contrite enough to grudgingly accede to any demands she might care to make.

By the time she goes to bed, Grace Foley is relaxed and tranquil, and despite – or perhaps because of – the fact that she's on her own, she sleeps exceptionally well.

-oOo-

It's just a little before nine in the morning when Grace arrives in the CCU's gloomy squad room to find her colleagues in a mild state of bewilderment. Peter Boyd is not in his office, and further checks have already confirmed that he is nowhere in the building. He is not up on the second floor needling Chief Inspector Rowland, the nominal commander of the station that grudgingly houses the completely independent CCU in its basement; he is not in the archives. More fundamentally, his car is not in the staff car park. Spencer has already checked his desk diary, and the only appointment listed for the morning is a meeting with someone from the DPP that is scheduled to take place in his own office.

Boyd is never late. He's frequently in the building very early, but he is never late. Sometimes he calls in to announce that he is diverting somewhere else, but it is completely unheard of for him to be simply absent. Kat Howard half-heartedly suggests that he has simply overslept, but it's quite clear that she doesn't even believe the hypothesis herself. Grace, who privately has good reason to know such things, believes it is more likely that he has flown to the moon than overslept. It's just not something Boyd does, even at weekends. It vaguely occurs to her that perhaps he is attempting to make some sort of point to her, but that doesn't quite ring true, either.

The minutes pass, and still Boyd does not appear. Spencer reports that his home phone is still going straight to answerphone, but more ominously, that his mobile is switched off altogether. And that's when Grace starts to really worry.

By ten o'clock even Eve quietly agrees that something is definitely not right.

By eleven o'clock it's agreed that despite the inevitable repercussions that will come their way if Boyd's absence proves to be completely explainable, something needs to be done. Spencer is universally nominated to make a call to Greenwich police station.

-oOo-

It doesn't take long for the news to come back. Two uniformed constables have repeatedly knocked on Boyd's front door and obtained absolutely no response. His car is on the drive, but the house is still and quiet, and the front and back doors are securely locked. There is no immediate sign of anything suspicious – but it doesn't appear that Peter Boyd is at home.

"'Houston, we have a problem'," Eve quotes, but it's clear to Grace that her flippancy is now hiding genuine concern.

Kat is looking at Spencer; she says, "Misper…?"

He grimaces, shakes his head. "No, I think we should check it out ourselves before making it official. Grace?"

She looks at him, realises he is asking for her opinion. Or perhaps for her blessing. For a moment her concern almost outweighs her common-sense, but she quickly composes herself and says, "You're right, Spence. Perhaps he just forgot to tell us he had an appointment…"

"But his car's there," Eve points out. "Come on, Grace…"

Spencer seems to come to a decision, "I'll go and check his house. Kat, make some discreet enquiries, hm? Find out if anyone's seen him since last night. Grace – "

"I'm coming with you," she says firmly. She meets his gaze steadily, and he eventually nods.

"Well, I'll just go back to the lab, then, shall I?" Eve says.

"If I were you," Kat says darkly, "I'd just start hoping your services aren't going to be required."

It's a sobering thought. One Grace really doesn't want to dwell on.

-oOo-

"It's quicker if you turn left here," Grace says, almost without thinking. They're heading east into Greenwich, along a route she knows very well. Spencer glances at her, but if he's surprised he keeps it well-hidden. He indicates, turns the car down the indicated side road.

The heavy silence in the car is oppressive. Eventually, Spencer says, "Yesterday… it wasn't anything serious?"

She knows what he's asking, and she shakes her head. "No, not at all. You know what he's like, Spence. It was nothing."

"He was still in his office when you left last night?"

"Yes," Grace tells him. She hesitates, finally admits, "I called him a couple of times during the evening – no answer. I just thought… Well, you know."

"Yeah, I know," Spencer says, sounding sympathetic. "You know how hard he's gonna kick my ass over this, don't you?"

"What, when he comes wandering into the office at lunchtime, right as rain?" Grace says. She offers him a slight smile. "Sorry, Spence."

He shrugs in a philosophical sort of way, shoots her a quick, but not entirely convincing grin. "Remind me again why I agreed to come back…?"

Grace contemplates the slightly bitter undertone in his voice for a moment. At length she says, "You know how highly he thinks of you, Spence."

"Yeah," Spencer says, sounding a little resigned.

They lapse back into silence for a few moments.

"Turn down there," Grace says finally, pointing. "It's about halfway down on the left."

The reports are accurate. Boyd's unmarked police Audi is parked on the short drive, bonnet towards the house, and it's securely locked. Grace and Spencer walk up the steps to the front door together, but despite repeated loud knocking there's absolutely no response. All the windows are closed. There's no sign of life, no indication that anyone's home. Grace exchanges a look with her younger colleague. He hesitates, sighs, and says, "So… just how angry is he going to be if I kick his front door in?"

"Absolutely incandescent," Grace tells him, already reaching into her handbag. "Spence?"

He looks away from the big front door. "Yeah?"

"Keys," she tells him, holding them up. She doesn't intend to offer any explanation.

Something like astonishment definitely passes over his features, but it's quickly hidden. He says, "Oh… Okay."

-oOo-

Boyd is nowhere in the house. They check every room between them, and end up back in the living room. Evidently, however, he's been there at some point since leaving the CCU offices the night before, because his long coat is casually draped over the back of the sofa, and his suit jacket is hanging on the back of one of the dining chairs. There's paperwork, his laptop and an empty whiskey tumbler, but there is no Boyd.

Something inside Grace has gone very cold, and there's a hard, frightened knot somewhere deep in her stomach. Quietly, she says, "Check his jacket pockets, Spence."

Spencer moves to do so. Grace watches, too aware of the fear that's prickling up and down her spine. Spencer eventually looks up at her, and his expression is grim. He says, "Wallet and warrant card are here; and he didn't switch his phone off – the battery's gone flat."

Something very bad has happened, and they both know it. There's no legal requirement for Boyd to carry his warrant card off-duty, but – like almost all other police officers – he always does. At least, Grace has never known him go anywhere without it, and she can see the same thought reflected on Spencer's face. He carries his at all times, too, as does Kat. It's just… what police officers do. It's an ingrained habit.

Spencer says, "I'm going to have to call this in, Grace. He's a Super – the disappearance of a senior officer is way beyond my jurisdiction."

Grace understands, and she knows Spencer isn't happy about it. But there's really nothing else they can do.

-oOo-

Boyd remembers the knock on the front door. He remembers assuming that the argument was the reason she wasn't using her key. He remembers opening the door, a wry, slightly sheepish smile on his face. And he remembers the night splintering in a flash of electric blue. He remembers – very clearly – the pain, and his complete inability to defend himself from it. All of those things are clear and organised in his mind. The rest is a blank. He simply doesn't remember anything else until the intense coldness of the concrete floor began to filter through to him.

At first he simply assumed he was in a very dark room, but now he's not so sure. His hands are tightly secured behind him with what feels like electrical flex or something very like it, but he's otherwise free to move, and he knows he's in a small space perhaps no more than four feet wide and eight feet long. He can stand upright, but he senses the ceiling – or whatever it is – isn't very far above him. He's shouted and cursed, and he's walked carefully round the tiny perimeter of the small space several times, testing his shoulder against the walls, and there's definitely no door. No windows, either. There's just the dark, the silence, a damp sort of cold and a distinct smell of petrol and oil.

Something about the smell triggers a distant memory from childhood. A small boy helping his father work on the family car, proud to be an extra pair of hands. Oil and petrol, and summer heat. And the slight chill of the shadows in the garage. And quite suddenly the adult Boyd knows exactly where he is. He's in a vehicle inspection pit, and if whoever's responsible for putting him there doesn't come back, and he can't work his hands free, he might just as well be buried alive.

-oOo-

Never, Grace thinks, has the old adage about stirring up a hornet's nest been more appropriate. Police officers start to arrive within minutes of Spencer Jordan's first call, and they keep arriving over the course of the next hour or so, increasing in seniority as the time passes. The SOCOs arrive from Greenwich, closely followed by Eve and Kat from CCU headquarters. Eventually it seems that wherever Grace looks she sees someone busily doing something.

For a while it's nothing but organised chaos, and then, just after two of the more senior officers leave, a short, stocky man in a dark suit arrives and introduces himself to Spencer as Detective Chief Superintendent David Walker. It seems that the investigation into Boyd's disappearance has fallen to him and his officers, and it also seems that he isn't particularly happy about the fact. Something about him, his gruffness, maybe, or his apparent lack of tact and diplomacy, reminds Grace very strongly of Boyd. And that's far from a good thing, given the circumstances.

Walker does seem to be both experienced and efficient, however, and again, in the way he simply seems to make things happen, he reminds her of Boyd. Clearly, they are cut from the same cloth. But it doesn't take Grace long to realise that Walker is phlegmatic where Boyd is fiery, and that he completely lacks the sly sense of humour that is one of Boyd's most obvious redeeming features. DCS Walker may be a good police officer, but he is not Peter Boyd. And Boyd is the only person Grace wants to see.

-oOo-

He's claustrophobic. Always has been. He hates being in small, confined spaces, but usually he's able to force the fear down into the pit of his stomach and face whatever it is he has to deal with. Alone, he will never choose to take a lift when there are stairs. Boyd dislikes enclosed, dark rooms, and it's a bad weakness to have, given the amount of time he's forced to spend in such places. Even the CCU's gloomy interview rooms make him uncomfortable, but he's a past master at disguising the fact. And ironically, his fearsome reputation for being volatile and unpredictable is very often a positive asset – it never actually occurs to anyone to question exactly why he often becomes edgy and restless during long interviews. He suspects Grace understands more than he'd ever actually care to tell her, but that's okay. He trusts Grace to keep anything she's deduced firmly to herself.

Grace. Boyd isn't sure how much time has passed, but he's certain it's long enough for him to be missed. He wonders what she's thinking, what scenarios are going through her mind. He wonders if she's frightened, and the thought causes a swell of rage that makes him start shouting again. There's no response, not a single sound apart from his own voice. Frustrated, he once again struggles angrily against the bonds that are biting painfully into his wrists, but if anything they pull even tighter. A small, logical part of his mind is well aware of the pointlessness of the fury that's overtaking him, but he's never had much luck controlling his temper, so, alone in the darkness, he rages without restraint.

-oOo-

Some people, no matter how different they are, just click. Some people meet and they just know. It's a subtle, elemental sort of thing that often has a very simple outcome. And that, Grace thinks, as she sits in Boyd's office staring blankly at the pile of paperwork on his desk, is exactly how it was for them, all those years ago. He needed a forensic psychologist's input on a case, she was recommended to him, he arranged to meet her, and the rest, as the old cliché goes, was history. And when Boyd was eventually given the chance to command his own specialised unit, he worked tirelessly to persuade her to join him in his big adventure. And she did. Because she could see what an interesting challenge it would be, and because she liked him.

But, she reflects, it would be a serious mistake for anyone to imagine that it was love at first sight on either side. Grace knows it was nothing like that, not for her and certainly not for him. But time and proximity can slowly change things.

A quiet tap on the office door disturbs her reverie, and as she looks up, she sees Eve smiling uncertainly at her through the door's glass panel. Grace smiles back, a tiny, weary smile, and makes 'come on in' gestures to the younger woman. Eve does so, quietly closing the door and sitting down before saying, "A friend of mine's sent the initial data from Boyd's house through..."

"Go on," Grace says quietly.

"They're running DNA tests on all the samples collected – it's being pushed through as a top priority, but even so it'll take time for the final results. But so far nothing particularly unusual's come up. Well…" Eve pauses, looking slightly uncomfortable. "What I mean is… It's already clear that there are two distinct DNA profiles showing up strongly all over the house. Boyd's, of course, and…"

"Mine," Grace finishes for her, meeting her gaze squarely.

"Yeah," Eve agrees quietly. "I just thought you should know that your name's been flagged as a person of interest. Walker's bound to want to talk to you."

"I'm sure," Grace says dryly. "Have they found anything else yet?"

Eve nods, tells her, "A few recent traces of blood on the front steps – not conclusively confirmed as Boyd's, but it's looking likely. But we're only talking about a very small amount, which could indicate a superficial injury that might not even be linked to his disappearance. There was certainly not enough to have come from the sort of blow needed to incapacitate him."

Grace isn't sure whether to take it as good news or not. She becomes aware that Eve is watching her intently, and that there is something distinctly nervous about her usually calm demeanour. She assumes the visible discomfort is to do with the DNA found at Boyd's house. Too tired and too worried to bother playing games, she asks bluntly, "You want to know why my DNA is all over Boyd's house."

"No," Eve says, but it isn't a quick, defensive denial. It's calm and completely honest. She says, "I know why your DNA is all over Boyd's house."

Grace raises her eyebrows, says a little tartly, "Really."

Eve seems to ignore the implied rebuke, says, "Grace… Look… You don't have to go through this alone…"

"Meaning…?"

Eve sighs. She seems to decide to opt for a more direct approach, because she says, "I… Oh, God... Look, I know about you and Boyd, okay? I know you're… together."

Frostily, Grace says, "I see."

"No," Eve says again, and her voice is quiet. "I don't think you do. I'm not talking about listening to office gossip and jumping to conclusions. I saw you, Grace. The two of you. I saw you together. I was in a cab. I think you'd just come out of a restaurant…"

For a moment Grace simply stares at her, processing the information. Eve holds her gaze calmly. It takes a further moment or two, but eventually Grace asks quietly, "When?"

Eve shrugs slightly. "Months ago. Before Christmas; while you were still having treatment."

Not knowing what to say, Grace settles for, "Oh."

"Grace… God, this is so awkward. It wasn't anything to do with me. It wasn't my place to say anything. But… with what's happened… Well, I just thought you could… do with some support. A shoulder to cry on, maybe. Christ, if it was my… partner… who was missing, I know I wouldn't want to go through it alone. That's all I'm trying to say."

Something inside Grace warms, and she feels a distinct twinge of relief. With real sincerity she says, "Thank you."

Eve offers her a tentative smile. "You're not furious with me, then?"

"Why on earth would I be furious with you?"

"I'm guessing there's a reason why you've kept it so quiet."

Grace sighs. "Let's just say there are people who would completely refuse to believe that being in… a relationship… with a colleague doesn't have to have a negative impact on one's ability to do one's job."

"And Boyd doesn't need to give anyone at the Yard another stick to beat him with?" Eve guesses.

"Correct."

Eve's silent for a moment, then she says, "Whatever's happened, we'll find him."

"'Don't worry, everything's going to be fine'?" Grace paraphrases.

"Yeah, I guess. Boyd will be okay, you know he will. That's one stubborn man you've taken on there, Doctor Foley."

Grace manages a tired smile. "I know. Believe me, I know."

-oOo-

Boyd doesn't realise he's been dozing until noises from somewhere above him jerk him back into a state of hyper-awareness. His first instinct is to call out, to start shouting, but something, an innate sort of cunning, maybe, stops him. He's not yet sure what he can do with the element of surprise, but many years of experience have made Boyd a wily old fox, so he stays where he is, huddled in the corner of the pit, and he keeps his mouth firmly shut. Somehow he knows, on a purely instinctive level, that the movement he can hear is connected to his abduction. He knows it's not an innocent party moving around above him.

He's right. The noise intensifies, and along with the sound of heavy scraping and strained grunting, a weak light starts to filter down into the dark. The crack opening over him is becoming a definite gap. Two inches, then six, then a foot. There isn't much light up there, either, it seems, but there's enough for him to confirm what he's already deduced – he's in a small, brick-lined space with a concrete floor, and there's nothing else in the dark, oily pit with him.

A harsh beam of light scythes through the gloom, making him blink and close his eyes against it as it settles steadily on him. The voice that speaks is hard, young and male and it seems to come from a long, long way away.

It says, "Still alive, then."

The accent is flat, pure Estuary. There's nothing distinctive about it, nothing that triggers any memories.

"Jesus," the voice continues. "You really stink, you know that?"

Boyd knows it. He doesn't know how long ago he opened his front door to a nightmare, but it's long enough for his clothes and his skin to have taken on the reek of oil and petrol; and there's more, there's sweat and fear and stale urine. He opens his eyes, stares balefully up at the light source. He can see nothing beyond it but inky blackness, but that doesn't matter. He knows he's glaring at his captor.

-oOo-

"Grace…?" Spencer's voice, quiet and concerned.

She looks up, "Is there any news?"

He shakes his head. "No. Grace, it's really late – you should go home."

"And do what?" Grace asks him pointedly. Sit alone worrying? Go to bed and try not to notice the cold, empty space next to her?

Spencer says, "You can't help him by letting yourself get exhausted. You're supposed to be looking after yourself, remember? The doctors – "

"Screw the doctors," Grace says, and her reaction is so vehement and so completely uncharacteristic that Spencer actually blinks in surprise. For a moment she thinks she understands how Boyd feels when he lets his temper rip – there's something empowering about simply letting the fury have its head. She can see how addictive it could become. But it isn't her way, and she immediately apologises, "I'm sorry, Spence. I'm just…"

"Hey," he says. "It's okay, I understand."

And maybe he does, in his own way. Spencer's been with them from the very beginning. He doesn't often say much, but he sees more than most. And now he knows she has keys to Boyd's house. Maybe it wouldn't be so bad to confide in him, too, to tell him just how scared she is, and why… But, no. No. He may well have already guessed, but she can't bring herself to confirm his suspicions. Grace trusts Spencer implicitly, of course she does, but the more people who know the truth the greater the danger, and Boyd doesn't need anyone inadvertently giving credence to all the unsubstantiated rumours that have circulated for as long as she can remember. He's been sailing far too close to the wind for far too long, and if –

"Look," Spencer says. "Why don't you let me get someone to drive you home? If Boyd thinks I wasn't looking after you properly he'll have my balls as well as my warrant card. And I'd really like to keep both."

Grace capitulates. What else can she do?

-oOo-

It's like blue fire in his veins, like agony and ecstasy. It's like being instantly reduced to an animal, like being turned into a twitching, howling marionette. And Boyd understands. He finally understands.

Neuromuscular incapacitation. Such a neat, scientific phrase. So clean, so clinical. As the commander of a specialised unit he's had access to the research, he's seen the proposals. He's even twice declined to send any of the officers under his command on the training courses. Boyd knows about the use and effectiveness of Tasers. But he's never expected to gain first-hand knowledge of their awesome disruptive power.

It's an enemy that can't be fought. He discovers that immediately. It's not just pain, it's a complete loss of any organised motor control. This, he now understands, is how the nightmare happened, and he thinks he remembers falling, falling down the stone steps just outside his own front door. Maybe he hit his head. Maybe not. But it doesn't matter. His captor has a Taser, and thus the ability to render him utterly helpless in a single heartbeat, and that's what actually matters.

-oOo-

They sit together in her cosy living room, sharing a bottle of red wine. The conversation ebbs and flows, sometimes straying into dangerous territory, sometimes focusing purely on the mundane. It's past late, heading for very early, but Grace needs the company and Eve doesn't look as if she's in any hurry to go anywhere.

It's Grace herself whole finally touches on the one subject that has remained taboo since they opened the bottle. Out of nowhere, she says, "It's not just a casual fling."

"Nothing to do with me," Eve says promptly.

"I appreciate that," Grace tells her. "And I'm incredibly grateful for your… discretion. I just don't want you thinking it's some trivial office thing."

Eve sips her wine. Not making eye contact, she says, "I knew that the minute I saw you together, Grace."

Grace considers the words. She wonders where they were, what they were doing. She isn't going to ask. Quietly, she says, "He's a good man, Eve."

The younger woman chuckles slightly and finally looks up, meeting and holding her gaze. "You really don't need to do this, Grace. The whole justification thing. If anything, I'm incredibly happy for you. For both of you. You've been through so much, the pair of you. If you can make each other happy even for a moment or two, well, that's a good thing. You look surprised…?"

"Perhaps I am, a bit," Grace admits. "I know what everyone thinks of him – "

Eve interrupts with a caustic laugh. "That he's a hard-headed, bad-tempered pain in the arse? Yeah, he is; but that's not the whole story, is it? And anyone who can't see that… Well, what does their opinion matter?"

Grace is silent for a moment. She sighs, then says, "I feel so guilty, Eve. I should have been there with him, but we had that stupid, pointless row, and when he didn't answer the phone… I just thought he was sulking. It's my fault."

"Of course it's not," Eve says. "Grace, whatever's happened, it's nothing to do with you. Chances are he'll have turned up without a scratch by the morning…"

-oOo-

_Continued…_


	3. Taken 2

**Taken (continued)**

Twenty-four hours becomes thirty-six hours far too quickly. And thirty-six hours becomes forty-eight, and then sixty, and still no-one knows where Peter Boyd is or what's happened to him. There are just a few splashes of blood – finally confirmed as his – and a complete absence. And on the morning of the third day Grace finds herself starting to field phone calls from increasingly concerned relatives. His brother, his nephew, an elderly and extremely irate uncle, himself a retired police officer; even, eventually, his ex-wife. And no-one can offer any insight at all into his disappearance.

Grace moves into his office and no-one questions why. Spencer is acting unit commander, but it's been made clear to them all that this will be a strictly temporary arrangement. If Boyd is not located soon, someone of equal rank will be brought in to cover, pending further developments. The world continues to turn, and the CCU divides its time between the normal routine of background work and research and awkwardly trying to be a part of DCS Walker's investigation. Walker is a regular visitor, and surprisingly, he is more patient with them all than they probably deserve, but it's quite clear his investigation is going nowhere.

"I don't know, Doctor," he says to her during the afternoon of that third day. "I really don't know. How does a fit, healthy man who's trained to defend himself vanish into thin air without a shred of evidence being left behind?"

It's a question that nags at them all. They know Boyd. He's not the sort of man to go down without a fight – and a vicious, no-holds-barred sort of fight at that. But there's nothing either in the house or outside of it that indicates such a struggle ever took place. There are just those few trivial splashes of blood and nothing else.

"Is it possible," Walker eventually asks her, "That we're looking at this in the wrong way? Is it possible he hasn't been abducted at all? That he's just gone off somewhere? Had some kind of breakdown, maybe?"

Grace shakes her head. "Extremely unlikely."

"Are you absolutely sure? Look, I knew Boyd in passing back in the day, but our paths haven't crossed for years. All I know is that his personnel records show he's been referred for counselling more than once. And that he's had some major issues in his personal life in the last couple of years."

"He was sent to anger management sessions a few years ago," Grace concedes. "But most of that was political manoeuvring. As for the rest, as a psychologist I can tell you that if he was going to have a 'breakdown' as you put it, it would already have happened. There was undoubtedly a danger period after the… murder… of his son, but – "

Walker looks sceptical, "But that's a big stressor, surely? The incident with Linda Cummings? The discovery that it was murder, not accidental death? Not to mention Cain's trial?"

Grace regards him steadily. "Trust me, Boyd hasn't wandered off somewhere. He's been taken against his will."

"And yet there's very little evidence to support the fact."

-oOo-

Somewhere behind him, his captor's voice says conversationally, "Tough old bastard, aren't you? Should've guessed you would be, really."

Boyd is weak and disorientated. He remembers something of the journey to… to wherever they now are. Fragments. Remembers a van; a Transit maybe. Remembers it was night, the street lights strobing through the back of the van. He thinks he remembers being dragged across a short stretch of rough ground. He certainly remembers being kicked heavily in the back, the side, the shoulder. He remembers the cold shock of the stagnant water in the rusty tank. After that things are much hazier.

But he is alive.

He thinks he is in some kind of disused warehouse building. It's certainly an industrial space, and a derelict one. There is a metal gantry above him, and the chain his right hand is securely handcuffed to is suspended from it. His left hand is free, but that isn't a particularly good thing because he can't stand supporting his own weight for long, and when he inevitably slumps all his weight is transferred to one agonisingly painful shoulder.

"They're looking for you, you know, Peter," the voice tells him. There's no trace of anxiety or irritation in the tone. "Looks like they've crawled all over every inch of your house. SOCOs and all sorts. I think they've even towed your car away to examine it."

Boyd says nothing. He's long past any words.

His captor ambles round in front of him. It is not the first time Boyd has seen him. He's a young man, tall slim and fair, but unremarkable. Yet… there is something. Something that tells Boyd to search his memory. He is sure he knows this young man, but he cannot place him.

The young man smiles, says, "Don't say much, do you?"

Boyd swallows, but his mouth and throat remain dry. He knows he is dehydrated. There has been a little water, but not much. Defiance makes him croak, "I know you."

The smile doesn't waver. "Do you? Well that's good, then, isn't it?"

_I do know you…_

"Smile for me, Peter," the young man says, producing a small, compact digital camera from his jacket pocket. "We're going to send your colleagues some pictures."

-oOo-

"Grace," Eve says, immediately getting to her feet and stepping forwards, hands slightly raised. "I really don't think you need to see these…"

Just the tone of Eve's voice tells Grace everything.

Spencer, standing on the far side of the examination table, shoots a glare at Kat. "I thought I told you to – "

"Shut up, Spence," Grace says curtly, interrupting him. "What was she supposed to do, chain me to my desk?"

It's the way that Eve immediately winces that sends a cold chill straight through her. Instead of staking another step forward to see for herself, Grace simply says, "Tell me."

Spencer says, "He's alive, Grace."

Grace ignores him, looks directly at Eve. "Tell me."

Eve takes a breath, glances at Spencer. Quietly, she says, "If you're sure, it's probably easier to see for yourself."

Hardly aware of Spencer and Kat falling discreetly back, Grace joins Eve at the table. There are three colour photographs laid out in a line, standard six-by-fours, each contained in a separate clear evidence bag, and above each original is a corresponding enlargement, each tagged with a crime number; official, investigation-sanctioned enlargements, then. Eve says, "The originals were produced using one of those near-instant photo machines – put your CD, memory card or USB key in, choose the pictures you want and _voila_."

The pictures are brutal in their clarity. Peter Boyd has been stripped, beaten and restrained. In the first, he is standing, looking completely dazed. In the second, his legs have buckled, but he is attempting to grip the chain his right hand is tethered to with his left. In the third, he is simply slumped, hanging by one arm, head bowed too far forward for his face to be visible.

Grace stares at the pictures, refusing to allow herself to look away. The strongest emotion roiling inside her is not fear or concern, it is rage. Absolute, unmitigated fury. No-one says anything. There is complete, strained silence in the lab. Slowly, very slowly, Grace looks up. She looks at Spencer first, then at Kat. Both of them stare back, expressions carefully, completely blank.

It is Eve who says, "The pictures are being analysed for any possible clues to the location. As you can see, it looks like he's being held in some kind of derelict warehouse or factory."

"Walker's seen these?" Grace asks abruptly.

"These are the originals," Eve says, gesturing at the six-by-fours. "They were delivered here by Royal Mail this morning; the envelope was postmarked WC2. But in answer to your question, yes, he's seen them. I emailed scans across to him, and a set of enlargements has been biked over."

"Good," Grace says, amazed at how calm she sounds. "Perhaps now he'll stop trying to tell us that this isn't a case of abduction."

Spencer says, "The envelope's from an economy brand multi-pack – nothing that couldn't be picked up for a few pence just about anywhere in London. Self-seal, of course."

"There may still be some DNA," Eve says. "Walker's given us the go ahead to test it ourselves – it's in-hand."

Again, there is silence.

Delicately, Spencer says, "From a profiler's point of view…?"

Momentarily, Grace closes her eyes. It helps focus her mind, if only a little. Opening them again, she says slowly, "There's a personal connection of some kind between… the victim… and the perpetrator."

"Because…?" Kat presses.

Grace bites back the impulse to snap angrily at the younger woman. Instead, she says very deliberately, "Because the victim has been stripped. There are two obvious reasons to strip a victim naked – one is for sexual gratification, the other is purely to degrade and humiliate the victim. Sometimes the motivation is a combination both reasons."

"Why does that prove a personal connection?"

"Because the pictures were sent to us," Spencer says slowly. "Personal humiliation, personal connection."

Kat mutters, "Jesus…"

"Someone with a grudge?" Eve suggests.

"Almost certainly," Grace tells her. "But more than that. Someone who's intelligent enough and organised enough to not only successfully abduct a fit, healthy man who's quite capable of defending himself, but to significantly minimise the amount of evidence left behind."

Spencer asks, "One perpetrator, Grace, or more than one?"

"Just one, I'm sure."

Kat says, "Boyd's been in the Met for what, thirty years? More? That's a lot of potential – "

"Best start looking, then, hadn't we?" Spencer tells her curtly.

-oOo-

"I think I might have found something," Eve says abruptly. She is standing at the examination table studying the last of the enlargements through an illuminated magnifying lens. "Grace? Can you come here a moment?"

Reluctantly, Grace leaves Eve's desk. She doesn't want to look at the photographs. Not ever again, in fact. But there's a note of excitement in Eve's voice that suggests a possible break-through. Approaching, she asks, "What is it?"

"Um… before I show you, can I ask you something a little… personal?"

Grace can't stop her eyebrows rising. "Personal in what way?"

Eve looks faintly embarrassed. "Does Boyd have any obvious identifying marks or scars? Specifically, on his shoulders?"

Grace doesn't need to think about it. She shakes her head. "Not on his shoulders, no."

"Then take a look at this. I think I may have solved one mystery."

Grace does as instructed, but has to ask, "What am I looking at?"

Eve points. "Look at his left shoulder; the way he's twisted as he's slumped forward, you can clearly see his shoulder blade, yes? Can you see the two small red marks?"

Grace stares through the lens, nods slowly. "Yes."

"I'll need to check some reference photographs for comparison, but I think those were caused by the contacts on a stun-gun. Probably a Taser. That's how he was taken out so quickly and efficiently, Grace – neuromuscular incapacitation," Eve says sounding slightly triumphant. She shakes her head. "He wouldn't have stood a chance – we're talking complete, instantaneous disruption of the sensory and motor nervous systems."

-oOo-

"Tell you what," the young man says. "Why don't you call me Riley. Most people do. It's driving you crazy, isn't it? Can't place me at all, can you?"

'Riley' is right on both counts. Boyd is certain he knows the fair young man from somewhere, but his thought processes are slow, sluggish, and he simply can't focus enough to find the right context, let alone the right occasion. But without knowing it, Riley is doing Boyd a favour. While he has something to occupy his mind, he is able to largely detach himself from his situation. He no longer has any meaningful grasp of how long he has been captive, but he does know that the sun has risen twice since he has been in the warehouse – or whatever it is. And he knows that Riley only appears in the daylight hours. Except for the night he was moved from the inspection pit.

Riley has provided him with a battered wooden crate to sit on. It takes some of the stress off his shoulder, even though his arm is permanently elevated. Boyd can't stand on his own any more, he's simply too weak from hunger, cold and exhaustion, and from the physical abuse sporadically meted out by his tormentor. There is a small plastic bottle within reach now, too, carefully half-filled every time Riley leaves. Just enough to keep him alive, not enough to quell the raging thirst or keep the symptoms of dehydration at bay.

Boyd refuses to examine the thought too closely, but he is beginning to think he will die in this cold, lonely place.

Riley walks in a wide circle around him, slowly, easily. It is the speculative walk of a predator. He says, "Shall I make it easy for you, Peter? Shall I give you a clue?"

Boyd does not respond. He doesn't even turn his head when Riley leaves his field of vision.

Behind him, Riley's voice says, "I knew your son."

_Luke…_

"Little Luke," Riley says, as if in confirmation. "Just another spoilt middle-class kid running away from home because mummy and daddy were so busy fighting they didn't have time for him. Poor little Luke, growing up on the streets with everyone knowing daddy was Old Bill. Bet you don't have any trouble imagining how hard that was for him, do you, Peter?"

_I know you…_

"Kid like that really needs to find some friends to look after him, am I right? Good friends."

And suddenly Boyd knows.

Of course he knows. He nearly killed Riley with his bare hands. Nearly threw him bodily from a fifth storey window.

-oOo-

"It certainly fits," Walker agrees. He and his DI are sitting in the CCU's squad room, and even if Boyd's abduction is not a CCU case, two sections of the transparent evidence board have been given over to it while unrelated matters have been summarily moved aside. Copies of the enlargements of the three photographs have been added, but someone – presumably Eve – has had the sensitivity to pixelate them. Not that it matters – everyone in the room has seen the originals.

"Someone somewhere knows our man," Spencer says. He is sitting forward, elbows on the desk in front of him, chin resting on his interlaced fingers. "There are guns changing hands out there for a few quid every day, but a Taser, that's a bit more specialised."

"Illegal import," Kat agrees.

"We might be able to narrow it down a bit more," Eve says. "Boyd's a big guy and all the evidence suggests he went straight down. That means we're not talking about a cheap generic low-voltage electro-shock weapon. We're talking about something with real bite – a law enforcement weapon, or something like it."

"As opposed to…?" Walker asks.

"Well, in the US it's perfect legal to own and carry electro-shock weapons in most states, but I seriously doubt something cheap and cheerful for handbag use could take out a grown man fast enough to prevent a struggle."

"Fair enough," Walker says. He looks at his DI. "Get onto that, then, Armstrong. Usual contacts, get the word out on the street."

"Sir."

Grace breaks her silence, says, "We're running out of time."

Walker glances at her. "We don't know that, Doctor Foley."

"Don't we? Boyd was taken six days ago, and there haven't been any demands made. In fact, there's been no contact at all apart from the sending of the photographs. This isn't kidnapping for gain, and you know it."

"Grace…" Eve says gently.

Walker clears his throat. "I agree with you on that, Doctor, but I don't think there's any reason to start thinking pessimistically at this stage. We know Boyd was alive two days ago, and we know he has the training and experience to – "

"Oh, for God's sake," Grace snaps at him, getting abruptly to her feet.

Walker stands up himself. "All I'm saying is that Boyd's like me – we're from the old school. He's not some wet-behind-the-ears university graduate who's been fast-tracked through the ranks; he's come up the hard way. He cut his teeth in the East End back in the days when people were still scared shitless of the Krays, even though they were banged up; we both did. He was a tough, canny bastard even back then, and I don't suppose he's changed very much."

-oOo-

"I saw your picture in the paper," Riley says. He's sitting on a bent, discarded metal box, arms folded across his chest, legs stretched out. "When they put Penny Cain on trial. Matthew Stark, Kevin Lowe, Luke Boyd… and God knows how many others. A real angel of mercy, eh? I s'pose it could be called euthanasia. Jury didn't think so, though, did they? Unanimous guilty verdict. And guess who shows up to hear sentence passed? Luke's daddy, the Detective Superintendent."

Boyd is drifting in and out of consciousness. He hears the words, most of them, but they seem to pass straight through him. He doesn't know it, but his blood pressure has dropped and his pulse is weak. The dehydration is relentlessly taking its toll. Nothing really hurts very much anymore, not the burning agony in his shoulder, or the darkening bruises. Perhaps only the loss of his only child still causes a weak flare of pain and rage.

"Am I boring you, Peter?" Riley's voice asks through the fog. "Are you dying on me, you bastard?"

Boyd doesn't know. Nor does he care.

Riley is on his feet. He comes in close, kicks away the crate Boyd is slumped on. The noise of the wood splintering as the crate crashes away on the concrete floor is momentarily drowned by the involuntary bellow of agony caused by the intense jolt that is transferred to Boyd's shoulder. But the pain brings him back to himself, causes a surge of adrenaline that enables him to lunge blindly at Riley.

The younger man jumps back, quick and lithe. He laughs, apparently more amused than vexed. "Luke always said daddy had a temper. What would hurt you the most, Peter? For me to tell you that he loved you, or for me to tell you that he hated you?"

Boyd lunges again, still fuelled by adrenaline. The suspended chain draws taut, preventing any further movement towards Riley, but the restraint only increases his fury.

Just out of reach, Riley smirks. "Feisty kid, he was. Took after you, did he? I guess he did. Never talked about his mother much. Always more of a daddy's boy. Hey, is that why you tried to kill me? Is that why you were going to throw me out of the fucking window? Jealous of the attention were you, Peter?"

Boyd roars, fights against the cold iron that holds him. And he finds his voice. "Fuck you… _Fuck you_…"

Riley is grinning. He gestures placidly to his left. "Smile, Peter."

The compact camera is sitting a little way away on a rusty oil canister, and the calmly blinking red light indicates it is recording everything.

-oOo-

The loud shrill of the telephone, too close to her ear, completely shatters the peace of her dreams. Grace is suddenly wide awake, and the irony is that she is not escaping a nightmare by waking, but returning to one. It's very early, the daylight threading into the room is sparse and grey, and the sound of the phone is unpleasantly strident. Her heart is beating impossibly fast as she snatches up the receiver. "Grace Foley."

"Grace," Eve's voice says. "I'm sorry to call so early – "

"Is there some news?" Grace demands, sitting up straight.

There is an audible sigh on the other end of the line. "We've just received a video clip via email. A disposable webmail account. We're chasing it."

But all Grace is thinking about is the video clip. "Oh, God… Is it…? Is he…?"

"We've no way of telling if the timestamp is accurate, but if it is, he was still alive yesterday afternoon," Eve tells her. There is a tiny pause. "It's… not easy to watch. And personally I'd ask you not to… but Walker wants your evaluation."

Grace chokes down a bitter mix of fear and nausea, manages to ask, "Of Boyd's condition?"

"Of Boyd's abductor. He's on the video, Grace."

"He's deliberately revealed himself? That's not good, Eve. That's really not good."

"I know."

Grace tries to steady herself. Quietly, she says, "I'll be as quick as I can."

"Do you want us to send a car for you?"

"No. No, I'll be fine. I won't be long," Grace says, and she puts the receiver down without a farewell, knowing that her forced composure is starting to fracture. Predictably enough, within seconds the first tears start to escape, tracing their way down her cheeks. She can find no words that begin to accurately describe her feelings. She's long past shock, long past fear. She's somewhere deep in a visceral horror that seems infinite in its dark bleakness.

She curls up on her bed, unconsciously choosing the empty space where Boyd usually sleeps, and she sobs without restraint until she is empty and exhausted. And then, and only then, does she force herself to rise. Everything she does is mechanical, almost autonomous. But no more tears fall.

-oOo-

"Out," Eve says, gesturing firmly towards the lab doors. "All of you. We'll come down to the squad room when we're ready."

Walker looks as if he is going to argue, but Grace sees the look Spencer shoots the senior officer, and after a moment they all troop quietly away, leaving her alone with Eve. Gratefully, she says, "Thank you."

"No problem," Eve says. "Come and sit down over here."

Grace does as she's told, settling herself at Eve's desk. She rests her hands in her lap, fingers loosely interlocked. The monitor before her is simply showing the standard Metropolitan Police screensaver. Eve perches on the edge of the desk, her expression deeply concerned, deeply compassionate. "Are you sure you can do this?"

"Do I have a choice?"

"There are other profilers, Grace."

"And how long will that take? No. Just show me."

Without a word, Eve reaches out for the computer's mouse. The screensaver disappears. A double-click later and the playback begins.

From behind a mask of stone, Grace watches. And it is indescribably awful.

Eventually, the man who has abducted Peter Boyd grins and says, _"Smile, Peter…"_

-oOo-

"Christ," Eve says to the caller on the other end of the line. "We'll be there, okay? Just give us a few minutes."

The tears have stopped, and Grace manages a watery smile as the receiver is slammed down. "Walker?"

"Yeah. Arsehole."

Grace sighs. "Don't be too hard on him."

Eve stares in response. "Grace…"

"Don't, Eve. Just… let it go. He has no idea."

"You're too tolerant, you know that, don't you?" Eve says, and almost immediately adds, "Sorry."

"Don't be; you're probably right," Grace says. She takes a deep breath. "So. This is the man that Boyd found with – "

"Grace?"

She blinks. "What?"

"Just… take a moment for yourself, okay? Don't rush straight into profiling mode."

With absolute honesty, Grace says, "I don't know what else to do."

They are still at Eve's desk. Eve perches on the edge of it again, and to Grace's complete surprise she says, "How did it start? You and Boyd? I mean… you don't have to tell me…"

Grace understands. It's a diversionary tactic. Softly, she says, "Maybe it was always on the cards, I don't know. I always had a soft spot for him. Oh, he could try the patience of a saint, you know that, but underneath it all…"

"He's a pussycat?" Eve suggests, absolutely deadpan.

Despite everything, despite the shock and horror, Grace can't suppress a slight, painful chuckle. "Your words, not mine."

Eve folds her arms. She says, "Are you ready to get this done?"

"No," Grace admits. "But I'll do it. And we will find him, won't we, Eve?"

The younger woman nods. "Of course we will."

-oOo-

The cold shock of water hitting him brings Boyd back. He starts to shiver violently, and some vaguely lucid part of his mind thinks that the involuntary reaction is probably a good thing. When he opens his eyes, Riley is looking down at him, a dripping, battered plastic container in his hands. It takes him a moment, but Boyd slowly realises he has to look up a long way to see Riley's face, and he begins to understand that he's no longer suspended. No longer restrained at all, in fact. He is simply lying on his side on the concrete floor, free to move however he chooses. But he is too cold, too weak and too stiff to do anything other than shiver.

"You amaze me, Peter," Riley says, idly tossing the container aside. "Seriously, you do. How are you still alive? I thought I'd be coming to bury you today. I even brought a spade with me."

Boyd lets his eyes drift closed. He is very tired, and even the shivering seems to be subsiding.

Riley sits down next to him on the concrete floor. "Sometimes he used to talk about going home, you know. And I used to tell him he was being stupid. Daddy doesn't want a thieving junkie kid cluttering up his nice house and embarrassing him in front of his colleagues, does he? Daddy knows what you have to do to survive on the streets, and daddy doesn't want that under his roof. He believed it, too."

The words wash over Boyd. There is nothing left in him that is capable of raging, of crying.

"Little Luke. So trusting, so naïve. So pleased to have someone to look after him. So willing to do anything for a needle and someone to talk to in the middle of the night…" Riley breaks off. When he speaks again, the mocking note in his voice has been replaced by something much harsher. "Then one day daddy turns up out of the blue and tries to kill me, and the next time I see Luke suddenly he's full of hope and he's telling me that maybe it doesn't matter what he's done, maybe daddy will forgive him, and maybe he can go home after all. Fucker."

Boyd barely hears any of it.

-oOo-

Walker's DI, Armstrong, bursts into the squad room holding a piece of paper aloft. "We've got a name. William Riley O'Connor. Lives in a hostel in Lewisham. Arrest sheet as long as your arm going back years."

The atmosphere in the room is suddenly electric. It's Spencer who says, "Let's go."

Armstrong shakes his head. "The boss is already on his way over to the place with our DS."

Grace is on her feet. She asks, "What do we know about O'Connor?"

"Usual story – ran away from a children's home in his early teens and disappeared off the radar until he was nicked for shoplifting; after that he was picked up for just about everything you can think of – all petty stuff," Armstrong says. He continues, "Very high IQ, but a long history of drug abuse and psychiatric problems. Finally got eighteen months for common assault; came out of prison four weeks ago."

"How did we get to him?" Kat asks.

Armstrong grins. "Let's just say that the threat of being charged with being an accomplice to the abduction and assault of a senior police officer is strong enough to override sudden memory problems about who's been looking around for what."

"O'Connor was trying to get hold of a Taser?" Spencer says.

"And succeeded. Positive I.D. from one of the stills from the video clip. He's our boy."

Grace becomes aware of Eve's hand resting on her shoulder. Without looking round, she pats it gently in recognition of the quiet support.

From her desk, Kat announces, "O'Connor, William Riley. Got him."

And when Kat turns her monitor round, Grace knows she's right. The sullen face on the screen belongs to the young man on the video clip.

-oOo-

_Continued…_


	4. Taken 3

**Taken (continued)**

"I think you're dying, old man," Riley says quietly. "But that's okay. Maybe you're going to a better place. That's what they say, isn't it?"

Boyd is drifting again. He slips easily in and out of consciousness, not even aware of the fact. He doesn't notice when Riley tentatively reaches out to him, doesn't feel the hand that gently strokes his hair. Nor does he notice that Riley is suddenly crying quietly, tears running unchecked down his hard young face.

"I'm sorry," Riley says, his voice hoarse. "I'm really sorry. Fuck… it wasn't supposed to be like this…"

-oOo-

The moment the news that O'Connor is nowhere to be found reaches the CCU, all pretence of compliantly letting Walker and his officers deal with the matter instantly evaporates. It isn't Grace who leads the charge from the squad room, it is Spencer Jordan, and they all follow him immediately.

When Armstrong attempts to protest, it is Kat who wheels round on him and snaps, "Piss off, he's our Super and we're going. Sir."

"Bravo," Eve says loudly.

And Grace has never been more proud of any of them.

-oOo-

"Daddy?" Riley says, and his voice holds a devastated, mournful note. "Daddy…?"

It's just a word. A child's word. But some words have immense power.

Peter Boyd is more dead than alive, but he opens his eyes. His blood pressure is dangerously low now, and his pulse is so weak that it's barely detectable. His vision is blurred, but he can see a human shape in front of him.

"Daddy…?"

He thinks the shape is Luke. Just for a moment he thinks the shape is Luke. And just for that moment he is absolutely determined to live. But the shape is an illusion. Luke is dead. Dead and buried.

Boyd doesn't want to close his eyes, because some deep animal instinct tells him that if he does he will never open them again. But the world is growing darker and more distant, and everything is suddenly very quiet and very peaceful.

In those last few moments, he thinks not of Luke, but of Grace. And the last conscious thought he has before his eyes close is that at least they took a chance, at least he won't die regretting all the things that could have been. He doesn't struggle. He just lets the darkness take him.

And that's how his colleagues find him. Curled up on the concrete floor, stripped, broken and lifeless, with Riley sitting next to him, still crying.

-oOo-

Spencer and Kat are armed, and they both run forwards, both of them shouting independent warnings to Riley, who briefly tries to scramble away before freezing, but Grace's attention is not on Riley. Eve is ahead of her, but not by much, and it is Eve who drops straight to her knees and starts searching frantically for a pulse. Grace reaches her side in the same instant that she glances up and says grimly, "No pulse."

Kat is dealing with Riley – none too gently – and it is Spence who simultaneously swears and produces his mobile. Grace vaguely hears him yelling for back-up, for an ambulance, but she is concentrating on Eve, who is suddenly incredibly, ruthlessly calm. It is Eve who says, "Help me roll him over… Quickly, Grace…"

His skin feels icy, and when they roll him onto his back, his head lolls alarmingly.

Eve's head is down over his chest. Moments later she reports, "Not breathing."

Spencer's voice, very loud and very close: "Shit…"

"Starting CPR," Eve says.

For a moment Grace thinks she is going to faint, but somehow she rallies herself, and as she summons every reserve of strength she has, she feels Spencer's arm go round her. Whether for comfort or support, she isn't sure, but either way, she's grateful.

Eve is counting chest compressions. Of them all, she is certainly the calmest, the most focused. Grace doesn't consciously turn away, it just seems to happen, and suddenly her head is against Spencer's broad chest and he is holding her very tightly.

"Come on," she hears Eve's voice say. "Come on, don't you dare die on me, you cantankerous, bad-tempered – "

"Grace," Spencer says gently. "Come away now, Grace…"

She resists him, finds astonishing strength and tenacity from some deep, deep reserve. "No."

And so they all remain, locked into their private drama until the distant wail of an ambulance becomes a piercing howl.

-oOo-

"Hypothermia and dehydration," one of the hospital doctors informs them, much later. "But we're bringing his core temperature up slowly, and we're running IV fluids into him. He's not well, but he's stable."

"Level of consciousness?" Eve asks.

"Variable, to say the least. He's very confused – but that's almost certainly due to the dehydration."

Grace asks quietly, "What about his other injuries?"

The doctor grunts. "Superficial, most of them. Cuts and bruises, query on a couple of ribs. Looks like there's some ligament damage to the right shoulder, but we'll be able to assess that more fully tomorrow. We've run an ECG, and there's nothing wrong with his heart, but we'll monitor him for a couple of days to make sure. Police officer, hm?"

"Detective Superintendent," Kat says with an unnecessary touch of force.

The doctor raises his eyebrows a fraction. "I see. Well, your Detective Superintendent has certainly been through the wars, no doubt about it. But there's no reason why he won't make a full recovery. Now, if you'll excuse me…"

"Can we see him?" Grace asks.

"That's really a matter for the ward staff," he says, already walking away.

"Prick," Kat mutters.

-oOo-

Boyd is blissfully unaware. He sleeps and he dreams. He doesn't notice as day turns to night and then slowly back to day. He isn't aware of the medical staff or the visitors that come and go. It's a long, long time before he stirs properly, and his first thought, quickly dismissed, is that he has woken from a long and particularly graphic nightmare. There is sunlight streaming through the window, and it is blessedly warm and bright. Instinctively, he tries to turn towards it, and it's then that he finds out exactly how weak, stiff and sore he really is. Everything seems to hurt.

It occurs to him that he's in a hospital bed. Which would explain the needle in the back of his hand, and the wires stuck to his chest. He manages to raise his head, just a little, hoping to get a better idea of his situation. He seems to be in a small side room, and in the corner of the room there is a large and spectacularly uncomfortable-looking hospital chair. Occupied.

Boyd tilts his head a fraction, studying her. Grace is deeply, determinedly asleep, tucked up into what cannot possibly be a comfortable position. Amusement and affection vie for superiority and seem to reach a placid sort of compromise. He lets his head drop back onto the pillows, but he manages to keep her in sight. She sleeps on, oblivious, and that makes him smile. She is a much heavier sleeper than he is, and she is prone to restlessly kicking out at anti-social hours of the morning. More than once he's been woken by a sharp kick to the back of the leg – later strenuously denied.

Almost as if on cue, she stirs slightly. Boyd attempts to clear his throat. It hurts. A lot. But the rough sound is enough to make her open her eyes, and for a moment she simply stares at him blankly. Gamely, he makes an effort to speak. He manages a very hoarse, very unoriginal, "You okay?"

It's astonishing just how fast she manages to get across the room. Or perhaps not. But despite his aches and pains, Boyd isn't about to complain about the fierce, hard embrace he's subjected to. A little gruffly, he rasps, "Steady…"

And then the damned woman is crying. Which he understands completely.

-oOo-

"Oh, sorry, Boyd," Eve says breezily. "Didn't recognise you with your clothes on."

Boyd, bare-chested and still very much confined to his hospital bed, glares at her as she makes her way into the room. "Bloody hilarious. And inaccurate."

Eve sighs, deliberately melodramatic. "I know, but I've always wanted to use that line."

Grace taps him gently on the shoulder – the left not the right – and says, "Play nice, Boyd. It's thanks to Eve that you're still with us."

"So I've been told. Repeatedly."

"It's fine," Eve says. Pointedly, she adds, "Don't feel you have to say thank you, or anything."

"Thank you," Boyd says gravely.

"You're welcome. But the whole mouth-to-mouth thing? Never again – far too much stubble and beard."

"God's sake," he grumbles.

Grace can't help smiling. In fact, she doesn't think she's really stopped smiling for at least the last six or seven hours. Nor does she think she's likely to stop in the near future. To Boyd, she says, "She's got a point, you know. You look a mess."

"Well, I'm genuinely sorry about that, but the amenities were somewhat… limited."

"Walker's on his way," Eve informs them. "Wants a statement from you as soon as possible, Boyd."

"David Walker? Short, stocky bloke with an attitude problem?"

"Says the notorious DSI Boyd," Eve retorts smartly. "Yeah, that's him."

"Joy."

Such normal, easy banter, Grace thinks. Out of the darkness and into the light. But she is too wise and too experienced to believe that the nightmare is actually over.

-oOo-

It doesn't surprise anyone, least of all Grace, that Boyd discharges himself from hospital against all medical advice just seventy-two hours after his emergency admission. Nor does it surprise her that the first she knows about it is when he arrives at her house in a black cab. He refuses to disclose exactly who fetched the clothes and possessions required to facilitate his escape, but Grace's money is firmly on Spencer. Male solidarity.

"Shoulder?" Grace asks him as he settles gingerly onto her couch.

"Outpatients appointment next week. Physiotherapy."

"I see."

Boyd gives her a look. "What does that mean? 'I see'?"

"They've told you to take time off work, haven't they?"

"It may have been mentioned in passing. Have a bloody heart, Grace – I'm not going anywhere just yet. I still feel like I've been hit by a truck."

"Don't expect sympathy – you chose to discharge yourself."

Boyd glares at her. "Dear God, give me a hard time, why don't you?"

Her reply is succinct. "Idiot."

-oOo-

It's the darkness that breaks him, and that doesn't surprise Grace either. They go to bed early, curling up tightly together in a mutual need for reassurance and comfort, and once the lights are off she slips too easily into a light doze. Battered and bruised he may be, but he is warm and solid and blessedly, wonderfully alive. His heart beats a strong, regular rhythm, and it just doesn't seem possible he is the same man Eve performed CPR on in that cold, derelict warehouse. Grace dozes and she gradually sinks deeper into sleep, her possessive grip on him slowly slackening as she does so.

She doesn't know how much time has passed when she's woken by the violent shaking that has overtaken him. He's shaking, and he's crying almost completely silently, head firmly buried into the pillow. For a moment it nearly breaks her heart, the fact that he's trying so hard not to disturb her, and then instinct takes over and she presses herself tightly against him again, trying to absorb the shudders coursing through him. Softly, she says, "Peter… Peter, it's all right…"

Grace has known him in all his moods and colours. She's known him blindly, incoherently angry, she's known him frustrated, devastated and wild. She's known him gentle, known him clumsily, stupidly affectionate. She's known him in fury, in love and in lust. But she has never, ever known him like this. Not on the day he went to the mortuary to claim his son's body, not on the day his son's coffin was lowered quietly into the cold ground.

He turns into her in the end, head against her breast, and he shakes and he cries and in the end she genuinely begins to question her ability to be able to reach him.

Eventually, however, the words start to flow, mumbled and jumbled at first, and her anger rises beyond anything she has ever experienced as she starts to comprehend the sheer cruelty of the ordeal he has been through. For the story is not about captivity, pain or even humiliation. It's about a father's love for his son, and how callously one human being can manipulate another. She bleeds for him, and her only instinct is to protect him, as fiercely and completely as she possibly can.

-oOo-

A long time after the worst of the storm has blown itself out, in the darkness his voice quietly asks, "Do you think he was telling the truth, Grace? Do you think Luke wanted to come home?"

Grace doesn't know what she can possibly say. She strokes his hair, keeps him held firmly against her and finally says, "I don't know, Peter. I really don't know. But it's certainly possible, isn't it?"

"I never gave a shit about any of the things Riley said I would, you know that? I wasn't ashamed and I wasn't going to judge. I just wanted my boy back."

"I know."

"But that… scum… told him I wouldn't want to know. Christ, I wish I had killed him now. Thrown him straight out of that fucking window."

Quietly, Grace says, "You don't mean that."

Boyd's answer is harsh. "Oh, I do. I promise you, I do."

She says, "O'Connor wasn't responsible for Luke's death."

"If he stopped him coming home – "

"You're never going to know if that's true or not," Grace tells him. "He's a troubled young man with a long history of psychiatric problems. This isn't the first time he's been sectioned, and I doubt it will be the last. All we really know is that he was obsessed with Luke, and eventually he transferred that obsession to you – as Luke's father."

Boyd is silent. In the dark, unable to see his expression or the look in his eyes, Grace has no clue what he is thinking. She opens her mouth to speak, then closes it again. Sometimes silence is for the best. It's a long, long time before Boyd finally says, "I need you to go and talk to him."

Grace blinks in surprise. Cautiously, she says, "I don't think that's a good idea… besides, I've got no authority to do something like that."

"I can get you the authority. Walker's the SIO, and he owes me a few favours from way back when."

"Boyd, it won't help. It won't help you."

"I need you to do it."

"Peter – "

He pulls away from her, rolls slowly and stiffly onto his back. "Who the fuck else is going to tell me what's going on in his head? Who else can tell me if there was any truth in what he said?"

For a long moment Grace doesn't say anything. She considers her options. Finally, she says, "All right. I'll go and see him, and I'll give you my professional opinion… but that's all it will be – an opinion."

There's a distinctly grudging note in his voice as he replies, "Thank you."

The silence filters back, but it is less oppressive, less intimidating. Carefully, Grace edges against him. He doesn't say a word, but he puts an arm around her, gathers her into him.

-oOo-

The sun rises, and for a long time neither of them stirs. Asleep, they remain close together; when one unconsciously moves, the other instinctively follows, maintaining contact throughout their dreams. Eventually they wake together, too, and regard each other with gentle solemnity. Grace props herself up on an elbow and looks down at him, finally admitting, "I thought I'd lost you."

Boyd manages a slight shrug of his uninjured shoulder. "Only the good die young, Grace. That's what they say."

"Why are you always so flippant?"

"Because I'm a man; and an Englishman. I'm not going to tell you just how bloody scared I was, am I?"

Grace can't help the tiny, instinctive grin his backhanded admission causes. She leans in, presses the gentlest of kisses against his lips and draws back to gaze at him again.

He smiles for a moment, and then he asks, "So how did you find me in the end? No-one's fully explained that."

"I don't think you want to know. You might have to discipline your DI if I tell you."

"Bit handy with his fists, was he?" Boyd asks, evidently amused.

Trying to sound disapproving, Grace says, "A little. It turns out O'Connor's well known all around Lewisham and Woolwich. Didn't take Spence long to find someone who'd seen him hanging around Thamesmead over the last week or so. Then we just tried all the abandoned industrial buildings off Miles Drive until we got lucky."

"'Got lucky'? Detectives don't 'get lucky', Grace. They meticulously follow up leads."

"Okay. We meticulously followed up leads until we got lucky."

Boyd grins. "Excellent."

"Kat told Walker's DI to piss off."

His grin only increases. "I'm proud of her."

"I knew you would be. You're a true inspiration to your team, Boyd."

-oOo-

It goes against the grain, but Grace can't avoid making an appearance at the CCU headquarters that afternoon. She is well aware that her absence over the last few days has been noticed, but she is serenely and very obviously at her desk when Walker and his superiors arrive for a meeting with Spencer. Once she is certain her presence has been as firmly noted as her absence has, she slips quietly away with the willing collusion of Eve. She heads home with a sense of contentment.

A sense of contentment that shatters when she finds that both Boyd and the bottle of whiskey she keeps in the house just for him are both missing.

Grace panics, his recent abduction still far too raw, but she manages to control her anxiety enough to think clearly. And almost immediately she knows where he will be. She hurries back to her car, and moments later she is driving again.

Greenwich Cemetery isn't far from Woolwich Common, just off Shooters Hill Road. Grace has been there several times and when she parks her car and starts to walk, she knows where she's heading. It's a municipal cemetery, a big, open space filled with regimented lines of headstones. Thousands of headstones, thousands of graves. She follows the main path west, heading deeper into the modern necropolis.

There are fresh white carnations on Luke's grave, but there is no other sign of his father.

-oOo-

The entrance to the warehouse is still barred by police crime scene tape, but all the SOCOs are long gone. The scene has been processed, documented and abandoned. The slightly chilly late-afternoon breeze coming off the river only adds to the sense of silent desolation. Grace ducks under the gently fluttering tape and pushes her way through the same door that Spencer Jordan broke down just days before.

Boyd is sitting on a battered metal box – the same box visible in that terrible, cruel video clip. He looks up as she steps into the big, empty space, and he holds her gaze without any particular emotion. Grace tries not to notice the bold white spray markings on the concrete floor, each marking an individual bloodstain. She tries not to remember the sight of Boyd, naked and lifeless on that self-same concrete floor. Tries not to remember Eve counting chest compressions, or the sound of the ambulance arriving.

It's a stupid question, but she doesn't know what else to ask. "Are you all right?"

His shoulders rise a fraction as he takes a long, deep breath. But his answer is surprisingly calm. "I think so."

Grace stops beside him, drops a hand onto his shoulder. For a while they are both silent, both lost in their own thoughts.

She says, "Do you still want me to go and see him?"

She feels the very slight shrug. He says, "I don't know. Maybe you're right and there's just no point. What's the word of a lunatic worth?"

Grace doesn't bother to reprimand him for his choice of words. They argue too much about semantics as it is, and now is not the time for bickering. She says, "To start with, he was very organised in what he did, but as things escalated he lost control. Sending us photographs was calculated. Sending us the video clip was was – "

"Insane?" Boyd suggests.

Grace knows him very well indeed. She knows how his mind works, knows exactly where his vulnerabilities are. She knows, too, that he doesn't appreciate platitudes or well-meaning attempts to make him feel better. He's very direct himself, and direct is the best approach to use with him. She says, "He set out to hurt you, Boyd. The whys and wherefores don't matter. He wanted to hurt you, and he did. Physically, emotionally… in every single way he could think of. He abducted you, imprisoned you, beat you, humiliated you. He dripped poison into your ear, Boyd, just to hurt you."

"You're telling me to let it go, aren't you?"

"Essentially, yes. Oh, I know it's not that simple. You're traumatised – "

Boyd groans. "Please don't start talking about Post Traumatic Stress."

"All right, I won't. You know you'll have to go through a psychiatric evaluation?"

"I know I'll tell them where to shove it."

"Boyd – "

"No," he says, abruptly standing up. "This is over and done, Grace. Finished."

"You never learn, do you? Blocking things out is not the way to deal with – "

"You're not my bloody psychologist, Grace. Can you try to remember that?"

"No, I'm not. But I am your friend and colleague. And your partner. Or had you forgotten?"

"Oh, for God's sake… I'm not doing this. I'm not getting into a fight with you. I'm too tired. Too fucking traumatised, if that's what you want to hear. You don't know half of what that bastard did to me. You have no idea what I went through. So back off and let me deal with it in my own way."

His words sting, but not as much as the knowledge that he intends them to. When he steps away, Grace does not follow him. She's surprised, however, when he stops before he reaches the door. Stops and simply stands, his back to her. She waits, guessing that there is more to come.

Without turning round, he says, "I'm sorry."

The apology surprises her. Boyd will apologise for things, Grace knows that, but it usually takes him far longer to grudgingly admit to himself that an apology is warranted. It's up to her to be magnanimous. But she slowly shakes her head. To his back, she says, "Deal with it however you like, Boyd. I'm not your psychologist."

He turns to face her. More than a little wry, he says, "No. But you are my friend and colleague; and my partner."

"For my sins."

His answer is sardonic. "Thank you."

"Idiot."

"God, you're such hard work. Why do I bother?"

"Because you love me," Grace says, completely self-assured.

"Yeah, that must be it," he agrees.

They meet in the middle, both walking forward. They know how to compromise. Sometimes they forget that they know, but they do know. She looks up at him. He looks down at her. She puts her arms around his neck; he puts his arms around her waist. They don't say anything. They simply look.

For the second time Grace asks, "Are you all right?"

Boyd shakes his head. "No. Not remotely. But I will be."

"Good."

Who kisses who first doesn't matter. It's only the kiss itself and the accompanying embrace that matter.

They ease apart, Grace slipping her arm through his as they walk slowly towards the door. She says, "Eve knows. About us."

"Great."

"She saw us together, months ago."

"Wonderful."

"And Spence knows I have keys to your house."

"Marvellous."

"And just about everyone in the Met knows my DNA was all over your bedroom, your bathroom…"

"I'm running out of adjectives here, Grace."

"Sorry."

Boyd sighs heavily. "So, basically, what you're telling me is that my career is royally screwed."

"Oh, I think you might get away with a few more black marks yet."

"Not a chance. Maureen Smith is gunning for me."

"Since when?" Grace asks mildly.

She doesn't need to look up to see his grin. She can hear it in his voice. "Since she made a pass at me in the lift last time I was at the Yard and I knocked her back."

"Now I know you're delusional. She doesn't make passes at anyone under the rank of Commander."

Sounding smug, he says, "I'm a special case. She likes bad boys."

"Oh, shut up."

Boyd laughs, and it's a very real, very genuine laugh, the first she's heard since his timely rescue. She squeezes his arm gently, slightly mortified by the slight grunt of pain that the gesture provokes. He is, after all, still spectacularly bruised. But the bruises will fade. The whole incident will fade. Eventually.

- the end -

* * *

><p><strong>AN:** _Yep, I know it was originally Joe, not Luke, but since this story is set post-"Endgame", Luke seemed the more appropriate name to use. YMMV. :)_


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